A miracle of new vision ~ May 9, 2002

David Heiller

The world is changing before my eye. My right eye, to be exact.

On February 28, 2001, I had a cornea transplant on that eye to correct a condition known as keratakonis.

Keratakonis means the cornea is misshapen and cone-shaped. Glasses can’t correct it. Contact lenses can, but because of the cone shape, contacts don’t fit well.

Waiting for the healing and the vision that came with it.

That was my status. A doctor diagnosed keratakonis in both eyes when I was in college. My vision has gotten worse ever since. Less ­than-perfect vision was something I learned to live with. And I know there are many people with way worse eyes than me.

The past 14 months had some ups and many downs, as my new cornea got used to its new owner. It was frustrating, because I use my eyes a lot as editor of this paper. But I told myself it was like road construction. You get frustrated with the detours and delays, but once it’s finished, you are glad for the smooth drive.

The last of the stitches were removed in March of this year. Then the big day: I had photorefractive keratectomy (PRK) surgery, a type of laser surgery, on April 24.

PRK is a little different procedure than regular lasik surgery. The recovery time is longer (four to six weeks or more).

A handy diagram

During surgery my eye was open all the time with the help of an instrument that held my eye-lid open. It only took about 10 minutes. First the doctor removed the top layer of the cornea with a spatula. Then he used a laser to reshape the cornea. All I had to do was keep looking at a pulsing red light.

For the first few days my eye hurt, and the vision was cloudy. It was like looking through a dirty window.

But now, wow.

It’s hard to convey what is happening.

I woke up the other morning and looked out the window and saw a squirrel on a tree branch outside the window. Without putting my glasses on. That hasn’t happened since we bought this house in 1981.

A few days later I woke up and could read the alarm clock without squinting. Another first.

On Saturday evening, I took a walk with my wife, and stopped and looked at her in the golden sunlight, and realized I could see her perfectly with my right eye. It was better than my left eye, which had a glasses lens over it. In just a week and a half, my right eye with its new cornea had left my left eye in the dust. It took my son about 10 years to do that to me.

Cindy had joked that I would leave her once my eye got better and I could see. I can assure you that will not happen.

Every day my vision gets a little clearer. The world looks like a spring rain has just cleaned the air.

I can barely tell it’s happening, it’s happening so slowly. But every day is better, and that is circumstance that doesn’t happen in life too often.

I’m the recipient of a great gift. Somebody—a person from Florida, I was told—donated their healthy corneas. I got one. I am very grateful for that.

I’m grateful for the technology that makes this a safe and relatively easy procedure. I’m grateful to Dr. Dan Skorich who did the transplant, and Dr. David Hardten who did the PRK surgery. (I said it was relatively easy, but I should qualify that statement: These doctors made it seem easy.)

It’s a modern-day miracle.

Now on to my left eye.

Editor's Note: Unfortunately the PRK procedure was wonderful only for a short time, and David needed a third cornea transplant. Luckily we realized that PRK wasn't going to work before he had the left eye done.
Still, he was thrilled with those few weeks of no-glasses-needed vision.

A fun and fishy canoe trip ~ May 24, 2000

David Heiller

We had paddled safely down the Little Indian Sioux River a couple miles before Paul broke the news to me.

“I’ve got a new air mattress this year.” We were heading into the Boundary Waters for our annual canoe trip.

“Oh yeah?” I tried to answer calmly. “Great.”

That was about the extent of our brilliant conversation. But I sensed that a red flag had been hoisted.

I don’t have a big tent. Tents are like packages of food. If the macaroni and cheese is supposed to serve four people, two people will probably eat it and still be a little hungry.

My tent is called a four man tent, but it can sleep two people OK, provided that one of the people doesn’t have a queen-sized air mattress.

That’s what Paul had brought, which we discovered three miles later when we found a campsite on Upper Pawness Lake. He even had a battery-powered pump to fill it.

Scoping out the possibilities.

Paul’s Air Mattress (it has to be capitalized) left about six inches of space on my side of the tent. Paul isn’t a whole lot smaller than his Air Mattress. He could play nose tackle for the Green Bay Packers.

Paul retired early that first night. He was already sawing logs when I went to bed a bit later. Did I mention that he snores? Loudly. I was worried that a lovesick moose would come and answer his call.

I crawled up on the Air Mattress. It was like climbing onto the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Every time I moved or scratched, every time Paul shifted and snorted, the Air Mattress would pitch and roll.

Five minutes later I left the Air Mattress for a grassy bed under the stars. That’s where I slept. Actually, I didn’t get much sleep. It was cold! But what a beautiful night. I enjoyed watching the full moon travel over the calm lake waters throughout the night. Every cloud has a silver lining in the Boundary Waters.

Besides, I had caught a mess of fish that afternoon, and good fishing will lift the spirits of even the most sleep-deprived soul.

The next morning, Paul stumbled out of the tent. “Did you sleep outside?” he asked when he saw my frost-covered bag. He hadn’t woken once.

Camp nap-time.

We spent the next day sitting around the camp, reading, talking, sleeping (yes, I took a nap), and eating. And of course we fished. Jim and I paddled up the river to one of the portages into our lake. The water tumbled over rocks and boulders for about 50 feet before spreading out into a pool 100 yards wide.

It looked like a postcard for a good fishing hole, and it was. We jigged minnows and worms across the bottom, and the fish grabbed hold. We caught one—or lost one—on almost every other cast. Walleyes, rock bass, northerns, perch.

At one point, after I changed to a spinner, I put the lure in the water next to the canoe while I prepared to cast, and a northern grabbed it right there.

It’s good we caught a lot of fish too, because a fair amount of the food had been left back at Dave’s house. He had discovered that the taco sauce was missing the first night when he was making supper.

Then when Jim went looking for his home-made deer jerky, Dave recalled that it was still in the fridge. Along with the turkey loaf. And the eggs.

I’m not pointing any fingers here. I didn’t get angry, even though I’m still dreaming about that jerky. Let’s just say that if there is a bed open soon in the Alzheimer’s Unit at Mercy Hospital. I’m going to submit Dave’s name for honorary membership.

Stringer full of dinner.

On the second night, I prepared to sleep outside again. Jim, always an adventurer, said he could ride out the night with Paul, and I could have his spot in Dave’s tent. I had to smile at Jim’s upcoming voyage. Jim was already grinning too.

I lay in Dave’s tent, which is the size of a two car garage, and listened as Jim crawled up the Air Mattress next to Paul.

“Whoa,” I heard him say. “This is like riding a bucking bronco.” I knew what he was talking about.

That’s when the laughter started. Remember those days in church when you were a teenager and you couldn’t stop laughing? That’s the way it was, for me in my tent and for Jim on the Air Mattress. We laughed till we cried. My face hurt, my eyes burned, my body shook. Every time Jim or Paul moved, Jim would start laughing again, and I would follow suit.

That laugh was worth a stringer full of fish. Jim mentioned it the next day too. He said that once he stopped laughing, he had been able to sleep just fine. I was glad to have slept in Dave’s tent, because a thin layer of ice covered the water in the pans and cups by the fire the next morning. I would have frozen outside.

Dave Landwehr and Paul on an expedition.

We explored a few nearby lakes and rivers over the next two days. That’s my favorite part of these trips that we have been taking since 1987. Getting a feel for the country, looking for wildlife. The main species we saw were beaver. They were everywhere.

I tested the waters with a lure that I read about called a Tiny Torpedo. I had to special order it, but it was supposed to be a sure bet for small mouth bass. Only one small mouth struck it. The fish danced on the water just long enough to see who was in the canoe, then it spit out the bait.

Small mouth bass are not native to the Boundary Waters. They were introduced in 1942. Now they are considered one of the premier species there, because they are such scrappers.

We had a good trip. Lots of fish, lots of laughs. I took a roll of pictures. My one regret is that I didn’t get a picture of the biggest catch of all, the Air Mattress.

Dad will enjoy building swingsets, if it kills him ~ May 8, 1986

David Heiller

Getting a swingset is a milestone in a child’s life. Assembling one is a milestone in an adult’s life.

The brand new swingset! They loved it!

I started assembling our Flexible-Flyer swingset—or “play gym” as they are now called—at 6:30 p.m. Friday night. I finished at 1:30 Sunday afternoon. In between working, I ate and slept. That’s all. The swingset cost $139.00, at the store, but counting my labor at minimum wage, it cost $203.10. No one who watched me put it together would pay minimum wage though. A sheltered workshop could have done better.

I suspected trouble when I opened the box, and found the owner’s manual. It was 13 pages long. KEEP THIS MANUAL, it warned in stern bold face letters. “It contains assembly instructions, anchoring tips, maintenance and safety tips, and ordering information.” There was even a CAUTION on the front. I read it nervously, suspecting something from the surgeon general: Assembling swingsets may be hazardous to your mental health. No, it warned that kids heavier than 75 pounds had better find another place to play.

Noah enjoying the swingset,
Malika enjoying Noah

On the second page was the line that adorns the front of every owner’s manual, from pyramids to space shuttles: “Read the entire manual completely before assembly to familiarize yourself with all parts.” I have never met anyone who has done this. On this introductory page, it also told about safety, pre-assembly instructions, and tools required. I was relieved to see the only tools needed were a screwdriver, adjustable wrench, and pliers.

The next page told how to anchor the swingset—oops, the “gym set.” I learned that it could be anchored in concrete; or with ground anchors or augers. Why were they telling me how to anchor it when I hadn’t even taken out the parts yet? To build confidence, I would bet.

Page four got into the nitty-gritty: Assembling the A-frame. I removed the two plain chin bars, the slide chin bar, the end and center legs, the two top bars, and a whole pile of bolts, lock washers, and nuts. Here was the first good piece of advice on the nuts and bolts: “Place the contents in one end of shipping carton to prevent loss.” I discovered why soon enough, as I dumped them onto a plastic bag in the grass. It was about this time that my wife turned our son loose from the house. He streaked to my side, and began hefting the chin bars like a weight lifter about to celebrate his third birthday. He carried them to various parts of the lawn. Then he rearranged the center poles to the end, and put the end poles in the middle. While I straightened them, he discovered the pile of nuts and bolts, and dumped them into the grass. I returned to pick them up, yelling at Noah to not touch anything. By this time, he had found the screwdriver and pliers, and had carried them a safe distance from his crabby father.

The work was totally worth it!

“Noah,” I said in a voice bordering a scream, “give me my tools. These are not toys. And don’t touch those bolts and poles. I’m working.” How can you be working when you are making me a swingset, he must have thought.

Noah went to bed shortly after that. I got the A-frame assembled just as darkness fell. I had to substitute two of the ¼ inch from my own rusty collection and I ended up with four 5/16 inch bolts left over. But the frame was standing, and I slept a little better for it.

The next morning I tackled the air-glide assembly. A neighbor came over with his two kids. They played with Noah, but our daughter motored her 11-month frame toward the pile of bolts and nuts. As the three adults struggled with the air glide, Mollie counted the bolts and nuts out into the grass. We caught her half way through, then took turns holding her while the others worked through the assembly.

I asked my friend if he had ever assembled a swingset before. “Oh sure, a couple,” he said nonchalantly, But I could see his hands start to shake with the memory, and his eyes glazed over for a second. “I never read the directions either.”

He stuck with us till the lawn swing was assembled, then bolted for home. That left me with the slide, trapeze bar and swings. I finished them up by the following morning. I had to resort to one more tool not mentioned in the owner’s manual—a hammer. Some of the bolts—the ones we could find—just didn’t seem to fit.

The swingset is now up. I still have those four extra bolts, plus two nuts and nine lock washers. Noah announced as I finished the slide that he wanted to play with his sled. But he will get over that. I’m going to try to steer him into engineering as a career. Then he can be a professional gym set assembler, or at least put one up for his own family easier than I did.

The bluebird made it official ~ May 3, 2003

David Heiller 

Tree swallows were weaving a net over us last Saturday morning. They seemed to perch on every Al Jensen bluebird house in sight.

Bluebird

Tree swallow

I have nothing against tree swallows. They are confident and beautiful, and they eat a lot of mosquitoes. All great traits in a bird.

But we needed a bluebird. They are on the top of my list in the bird world. They always remind me of my Grandma Schnick, for some reason, of the good old days. Their red breast and soft blue color almost take my breath away.

I had staked a claim on the bench in the backyard, with muffins, coffee, and a banjo. Cindy joined me. That’s when we started looking for bluebirds.

“We usually see them by your Mom,” I said. Lorely’s ashes are buried on a little knoll next to the pond.

“And there it is,” Cindy said. I’m not making this up. The bluebird appeared as if on cue, on the bird house where we always see it.

The little knoll by the pond, a favorite
 bluebird nesting spot at our house.

Heaven has a lot of definitions, but that spot, that sight, and that moment was one of them.

Spring got officially underway then too. The calendar said it had happened six weeks earlier, but that warm moment was when it kicked in.

A hint of it came a few days earlier, on May 1, when I practically jumped out of bed at 5:45. It happens every year like clockwork, a feeling that I can’t lay in bed, that life is too short and the day is too perfect. Is it something in the light? Something in my genes? I don’t know. I only wish it would last all year. If I could bottle up that enthusiasm, I would be rich.

A lot of little things lead up to spring. Melting snow, maple syrup, frogs. Mud, grass fires, rain. The Minnesota Twins!

Bluebird babies in one of
our nesting boxes.

Then all of a sudden, it’s here. That’s what hit last Saturday morning, when that bluebird flew into the spotlight.

I was worried that I might miss it this year.

Things have been hectic. But I had enough sense to slow down last Saturday and soak it in a bit.

My thoughts had a bid of sadness with them too. We are going to be moving this fall, and in all likelihood, this will be our last spring on this property. The land, the garden, the birds, they all seem as familiar and comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans. I looked at it all last Saturday and thought, “Man I’m going to miss this.” You get attached to a back yard after 22 years!

The garden with its endless battles and blessings. The pond with its skating and swimming. The campfire, where we visited with friends. The sauna. Heck; even the outhouse brings a wry smile.

So many memories. I’ll have the rest of my life to remember them. It’s too soon to dwell on them here.

So I’ll just count my blessings for another wonderful spring—and that includes a big thank you for the glorious rain we got on Monday and Tuesday of this week. I hope you are enjoying your spring, and your bluebirds, equally as much.

Better listen when the river calls ~ April 29, 1999

David Heiller

The Kettle River water flowed along like a big muscle of water last Saturday morning, April 24, and it seemed to welcome our canoes almost as much as we welcomed it.

My friend, Dave, noticed it first. “This doesn’t look like the Kettle River,” he said after we set our canoes down below the bridge on County Road 46. The current was strong, the water deep.

Usually I don’t get on the river until later in the year, when the water is low and the rocks are high.

David and Dave in a quiet canoe,
during a different paddle.

Not Saturday. The power of the current sent us downstream in a hurry. Dave and I each had our own canoe, which was a new twist, and a good one, because even in high water, the Kettle River will shave aluminum off a heavily loaded canoe, and any canoe with me in it is heavy enough.

Saturday was a great day to be alive. Clear sky, temperatures in the sixties. No mosquitoes! The first really nice day of spring. And there couldn’t be a better place to enjoy it than in a canoe on a river.

The river was alive with life, even though the trees were bare and the ground drab with last year’s grass. Every bend sent ducks scurrying off. I wanted to shout, “Don’t go, we won’t hurt you,” but it wouldn’t have accomplished anything except to convince Dave that I was crazy.

We saw several deer. There are deer everywhere, and the river was no exception. I marveled at one that bounded along the shoreline, hurtling windfalls with grace and ease.

A bald eagle calmly watched us approach. No doubt he saw us long before we saw him, even though his big white head was hard to miss. We stopped paddling and drifted until he flew down the river. He waited for us two more times over the next hour, each time letting us get a little closer. It’s so good to see eagles. Thirty years ago they were a rare sight, thanks to DDT. Not anymore.

Trees hung over the river at places. Clumps of weeds hung on the branches that were about two feet above the water. That was the high water mark for 1999. The river at that level would have been even more fun to travel. We were a couple of weeks too late. I’m not complaining. Anyone who would complain about a day like this would have to be a cynical person indeed.

We went through several sets of rapids. The water was warming up for its roller coaster ride through Banning State Park. I would not care to tackle them there. But here they tilted and whirled us along at just the right pace.

At one sharp curve a tree had tipped over and stuck out across part of the river. I recognized that darn tree, and I made sure I turned sharply to avoid it. I didn’t quite do that in 1991, with my wife and two kids aboard, and the current swept us into the tree and flipped us over so fast we barely knew what happened. We lost a radio and a shoe, and I lost a lot of credibility. No one got hurt. My pride was bruised a bit, though.

I thought about watching the ice go out on the river two springs ago. It had backed up for at the bridge on 46, and we were lucky enough to see it let go one evening. I’ve never seen such an awesome display of power as that river of ice as it moved down stream, breaking off trees, scouring the banks.

We passed by two campgrounds, which I believe are maintained by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. They looked inviting. I’ve never camped at them. Usually it is so buggy. But there were no bugs on Saturday.

When our canoes were side by side, Dave and I would talk a bit about little things in our lives. Nothing of major importance. We didn’t about Kosovo, even though our country is waist deep in that muddy river and the water is rising.

We didn’t talk about the school shooting in Littleton, Colorado, even though it cast a haze over my thoughts that even a gorgeous day on the river couldn’t completely clear.     

Those sobering subjects wouldn’t fit the mood of a canoe trip, even a short jaunt like this.

The trip ended after only about an hour and a half. We pulled up at the bridge on County Road 52, and put the canoes in Dave’s van, then headed back to my truck. It was too short. But we each had chores to do at home.

As we drove back, I noticed that at practically every house, there were people outside. Raking, playing, carrying fishing poles. It was not right to be inside. I was glad Dave and I had answered the call of the river.

Remembering a few good teachers ~ April 13, 1989

David Heiller

What makes a good teacher? I found myself asking that question this week, for a couple reasons.

One reason was Rocky Kroon’s letter to the editor, which appears on this page. Rocky doesn’t write letters to the editor every week, or every year. His words are sincere, as he tells about one good teacher, good in the classroom and in the community. Please read it.

The other reason started with an incident last week at Askov Deep Rock. A group of people were standing at the counter, passing time. George Frederiksen told Pat Mee some fire department news.

“You’d better write it down and put it in your pocket,” I joked to Pat. Pat is the kind of guy who has a pocketful of notes to help him remember. His coverall pockets sometimes bulge like a file cabinet, filled with his notes.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Pat said, as he took his pen and wrote his reminder on the back of his hand.

The school and school-yard in Brownsville 
where Mrs. Sauer taught young 
Mr. Heiller the do's and the don't-s.

“Don’t write on your hands,” I said.

“Why not?” Pat asked, looking a little surprised.

I couldn’t answer for a second. Then I remembered Mrs. Sauer. “Because you’re not supposed to. People’s hands aren’t for writing.”

I felt a little embarrassed, telling a man like Pat Mee not to write on his hands. But Mrs. Sauer’s words just came out on their own.

“I had this seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Sauer,” I explained to Pat and George and Maureen Seibert. “She taught us never to write on our hands.” I can still remember her scolding Lynn Rohrer, an eighth grader, for writing on her hands. ‘Your body is a temple. Don’t abuse it,’ Mrs. Sauer had said, or something like that. ‘You weren’t born with ink on your skin, or holding a ball point pen.’

“And she taught us that whenever a woman drops something, a man should always pick it up for her,” I went on, not caring if Pat or George or Maureen really wanted me to. “She used to stand at the front of the class and drop her pen, and all the boys would dive for it to give it to her.”

Maureen looked at me. “She really made an impression on you, didn’t she?” Maureen asked.

“Yeah, she really did,” I answered. Funny, I hadn’t thought of Mrs. Sauer in years, but just like that, on a Tuesday morning some 22 years and 250 miles later, I remembered her. Good teachers will do that, the kind Rocky Kroon writes about.

I could write a book about Mrs. Sauer. She was about 50 then, and had grown-up daughters. We used to joke that one was named Dinah. We wanted to ask what it was like to have a “Dinah Sauer” for a daughter, but we never dared. Mrs. Sauer had sharp features, a hawk-like nose, reddish hair, piercing eyes. She moved quickly, and with complete confidence.

She thought quickly too, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell you things like: ‘Don’t write on your hands.’ And we listened.

One of David's
Brownsville school photos.

Mrs. Sauer would read books to us, a chapter a day from one of her favorites, like Little House on the Prairie. She made us read too, and everybody read, everybody checked out books from the library. Mrs. Sauer inspired us, and I can’t think of one student who didn’t respect her and obey her. She was that once-in-a-lifetime teacher.

But not all of Mrs. Sauer’s lessons came in the classroom. I remember one spring day that school year. The seventh and eighth grade classes had walked to Germania Hall to rehearse the graduation ceremony. On the way back, Mrs. Sauer pulled up beside me. She asked me what I wanted to do with my life.

“I want to be a truck driver,” I answered quickly.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re not meant to be a truck driver, David,” she said. “You’re going to go to college. You’ve got some special gifts, and you should use them.”

It was a clear day, and life was still fresh for a 13-year-old boy in rural Minnesota. That’s what she said. At least I think it is. It’s what I remember anyway, and that’s what good teachers are all about.’

Even if I sometimes wish I were a truck driver.

There’s a spring walk down the road ~ March 24, 1988

David Heiller

The sun rose above the clouds on Thursday morning, bringing warmth to the 20-degree March day. Ten inches of snow still lay on the fields from the March 12 storm. Mother Nature had temporarily delayed spring, but the sun rising above the eastern clouds had other notions.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I said to the kids.

“Yeah, let’s go for a walk, two-year-old Malika answered. She headed for the blue room to get her coat

“All right,” four-year-old Noah conceded: He snapped off Sesame Street, and followed Mollie to the blue room.

Noah and Malika, as different as they can be.

Mollie and Noah are brother and sister, they have been raised by the same set of parents in the same house, and the same way, but they are as different as the sun and the moon when it comes to a walk. Mollie runs to the door when we talk “walk. “ Noah usually gives in after a sales pitch.

Binti heard the clamor as we hit the porch, and sat twitching in front of the house. She can sense a walk from 20 yards, even when we are inside and she is outside. Now she could barely sit still, waiting for us, sitting and hopping all at the same time likes dogs will do.

Malika spotted Binti sitting, and headed for her.

Malika, at age two, felt as though
she should be able to supervise Binti. 
Binti didn't pay her much mind.

“Ι’ma ride Binti,” she claimed. “Hold still Binti.” She grabbed the 70-pound dog by the ear, and tried to lift a leg over.

Bind twitched off to one side.

Mollie lifted her leg again; grabbing Bind’s other ear as well.

Binti hopped to the rear. Mollie looked like Roy Rogers after some bad guy put a burr under Trigger’s saddle.

“Υοu can’t ride Binti,” I said. “She’s a dog, not a horse.”

“Oh all right,” Mollie answered, giving in like her big brother.

I grabbed the plastic sled, and Mollie climbed aboard, sitting on an old blanket. Noah walked ahead. He had been reluctant to come outside, but once outside, he caught the scent of spring, and headed down the driveway. Binti charged out of her blocks, sure now that the walk was for real, and disappeared into the ditch far ahead of us.

The gravel road was bare of snow in the middle, but the sled pulled easily-over gravel. At least it did until Noah climbed aboard behind Malika. Then I headed for the ditch. It was rough going, in snowplow droppings, so I slid the sled over the shoulder, and into the snowy ditch. The sled has a 10-foot long rope, so I pulled from the roadbed, while the kids slid along at an angle five feet below me.

Noah loved it. He laughed and leaned forward. Mollie, sitting ahead of him, did not agree. She started to whine, “Stop, Daddy.” I pulled them almost up onto the road, then let the sled go sliding backward, down onto an icy patch in the bottom of the ditch.

Malika complained again, but with Noah laughing from behind and me cheering from above, she was soon smiling too.

We reached two huge culverts which Pine County workers put on our road last summer. This was the halfway point of the walk. I sat down on the sled, while Noah scaled the bank onto the culvert. An icy patch, 20 feet long, stretched in front of the culvert. Soon he was sliding on it, laughing.

“Let me get down dare,” Mollie asked.

“You can go,” I said.

Noah walked over and reached up a hand from below, while I did the same from above. Soon she stood next to him on the ice. She immediately wanted to come back to me.

Noah hanging out at the tail end of winter.

Sitting on the blanket on the sled, soaking up a 30-degree March sun, I wasn’t about to move. I threw her the rope from the sled. She grabbed the end, and pulled herself up the culvert mountain. Then she used the rope to descend, and climbed up again. Then she let go of the rope and made the climb solo.

I pulled an orange from my coat pocket, and peeled it. The kids climbed up from the ditch. We sat on the sled, eating the orange. It tasted like spring, warm and juicy and sweet, with a promise for more.

The sun rose higher, moving the eastern clouds out all together. The hard-packed road showed signs of a few muddy spots. Time to get going. Noah led the way back north, toward home, while Malika rode again. Maybe that’s why Mollie likes walks, because she always rides on them.

The road stayed clear of cars as we made our way back home. Sometimes only a couple cars a day will pass our house, especially on a lazy Thursday morning. I glanced behind for a car, but knew none would come.

Cindy and I have taken walks on this road from the first day we moved here six years ago. It’s not breathtaking. Scrubby lowland to the west, an old hayfield to the right. A quarter mile on either side, the woods start. Binti chased a bear into the woods to the west on a walk our first summer here. Binti was smart enough not to follow it into the woods. We’ve walked the road with friends and relatives, with kids on our backs and kids inside Cindy’s belly. We’ve stuck walking sticks three feet down into frost boils in the spring. We’ve walked through a blizzard of snow in January, and a blizzard of fireflies in June. We’ve walked through fog in summer evenings. We’ve walked happily together, and we’ve walked angrily alone.

And we’ve walked through sunshine in the early days of spring, with kids on a Thursday morning. With a fresh orange, there’s nothing finer.